Wot da Zog
by SillyGoy
Summary: An ork boy is tellyported into the SWverse. Heh.


**.**

* * *

 **WOT DA ZOG  
**

 _A fantasy adventure by a silly goy  
_

* * *

It drizzled that early morning. Although the clouds were still dark and overcast, they had none of the fury of last night's storm. But the mud was still there, the soil of backyards and gardens turned into a brown sludge that became basins for rainwater when they could no longer absorb any more. The gutters of every abandoned house still channeled water down to vomit onto the narrow streets, although in much less volume, forming shallow puddles where the liquid ran out from wide-mouthed pipes.

And one such pool splashed and rippled under the fall of a black, splay-clawed foot. The figure in black continued to sweep its baleful gaze across the silent carriageway, seeing the entire world through the ruby that served as both its eye and its heart. Its sight truer than that of man's, the Neuroi decanus penetrated even the darkest of spaces through windows, and could snake its perception in between half-closed shutters. The search for its quarry was becoming protracted, and although it did not know fear, the accursed itch in its alien conscience was awfully close to human anxiety.

There was a sudden, bright and magnificent flash, one which the decanus ignored. Bathing the small town in its white radiance and exaggerating shadows for but the barest scratch of a split-second, arriving too late was the lightning strike's peal of thunder and the deep roar that shook the ground under the alien's tread. With its skin a drape of midnight wearing coat of hexagon tiling, its right arm was jointed twice: at the shoulder, and where the laser rifle that was its forearm began. Its mirror limb, meanwhile, sported a clawed, three-pronged hand, which idly twitched in curiously stereotypical robotic tics as it marched down the middle of the thoroughfare with complete and utter resolve.

But then it stopped, apropos of nothing save its otherworldly nature. It focused its senses against the incessant static noise of the light rain and the occasional thunderclap. There it was again, that throaty outburst, coming from a grumbling voice forced to scream. It was coarse and distant. Too distant. The decanus was, compared to its usual prey, emotionally stunted; but it could feel hatred, and within its mind crested wordless, undiluted invectives, and vows for a successful hunt.

It pondered as it turned around and began to backtrack. How could the creature bound from one corner of this miserable settlement to another so quickly? The decanus imperceptibly whirred in annoyance. In a grave, tactical oversight, it had underestimated its victim. And although the members under its charge were far from synapse range, it could still detect, through the blurry skeins of centuria-level telemetry, one less footsoldier in its contubernium at the very end of the creature's repeated roars.

That made six. The creature had killed six of its nameless squadmates. Either this was the latest breed of witch, or it was something that was far from human.

It did not know fear. It was unable to. But it did know caution; and it was with cautious steps that it entered the nexus of this place: a large plaza floored with cobblestone wherein laid abandoned stalls, their tarpaulin coverings keeping nonexistent goods dry in the absence of the merchants and farmers that had long since left the village. As rain dripped down its crested, cyclopean head, wherefrom a single, large and faceted eye stared at this alien homeworld, it walked on its bestial, zigzagged legs to the center of the confluence of paths.

Carriageways sprouted from the square in the cardinal and ordinal directions, forming something akin to an asterisk when viewed from above. The decanus took position near the nonfunctional, central fountain, and warily swiveled the muzzle of its forearm laser rifle around upon each of the converging roads. North, northeast, east, southeast, and further on, as it felt the fifth member of its contubernium click into synapse range.

' _Into settlement nexus,'_ It sent immediately to the only other remaining combat-capable member of its unit, in a garbled machine code that was something more sinister than binary. _'Lure prey there. Achieve visual on all avenues of approach and acquire fire superiority from afar. Kill cleanly as a result. Make haste.'_

But curiously, fifth raven did not respond. The synapse thread, though connected, did not vibrate with a reply as the seconds passed.

' _Fifth raven,'_ it sent again, _'pulse compliance of flock leader's order.'_

But still no answer came. While the decanus did not know fear, or trepidation, or anxiety, it did know caution. And currently, it was erring heavily into its indecisive side. It turned and turned, putting weight on one clawed foot while moving the other, laser rifle and true sight scanning all eight avenues of approach wherefrom the prey might come.

Prey, not the hunter. The decanus was a simple soul, although it held the sin of pride. Dangerous as the situation may have smelled at the moment, it simply would not admit that its contubernium had been pushed into the defensive. Oh, it would acknowledge the fact that it was crippled, but not the fact that the roles had been reversed.

' _Flock leader,'_ came the belated reply, a surprisingly weak vibration on the skeins of the squad's telemetry. Fifth raven must have been wounded, but at the very least, it was still alive.

' _Fifth Raven. Status of being? Sender presumes injury. What news of quarry?'_

Seconds passed this time, not minutes. But the answer was still an unintelligent, struggling whisper:

' _Flock leader...'_

' _Fifth Raven. Flock leader demands coordinates of temporal location and current state of being.'_

' _Flock-'_

And the mind-link died at that point.

The loom of telemetry had one less weaver. The decanus was sure of that. Through the naked mental vulnerabilities of its squad-level synapse link, it could feel fifth raven click from unlife to undeath. Contubernium synapses functioned only within thirty meters of the unit's decanus, and this one was alert at the prospect of the last of its squadmates perishing so close to it.

Where was the witch-creature? Where was it? Why wouldn't it show itself?

A resounding crash was the answer to those questions. The decanus inaudibly hissed, and turned its six-and-a-half-foot bulk round, laser rifle brought up to bear.

The Neuroi could hardly believe its one eye. How grossly did it underestimate the creature. It had found a _ninth_ avenue of approach.

The decanus saw it for the second time this solar day. A heavy, hundreds-of-kilograms animal that appeared to be a parody of one of the more intelligent species of fauna on this world. Long-armed, green-skinned and with a pronounced brow and a long face, it was, quite impossibly, uglier than a human. Large eyes, at a level of its one own and beady in comparison to its visage, stared in veiny, organic bloodshot at it. Embracing its muscled torso was a vest made from thick, brown leathers barely dyed blue: a patchwork, really, of squares of material and stitches to hold them together, made to look like an article of clothing. It did not look like it could be taken off without ripping it apart.

Iron-shod boots stood on the cobblestone. A crude pair of trousers, dyed white with red vertical stripes, covered its short legs, and at its hip was a girdle arrayed with pockets of many different sizes for many different uses. A belt of chemically-propelled slug ammunition, of autocannon caliber, peeked out from one of such pockets. And in its big, burly hands were gripped two things: at the right, a gargantuan, cheaply-wrought axe of blooded steel; at the left, a faceted sphere of some sort.

The creature grinned, parting its scarred lips and baring its array of dirty yellow stalactites and stalagmites in an expression of mockery. It must have taken all of the muscles on its ugly face, because even its pointed ears twitched. "Hey," it said, in a low but cheerful growl. "I gots sumfin for's ya."

Then it threw the thing clutched in its left fist, giving the decanus pause. Bouncing on the stone whilst emitting a wispy trail of pseudo-snow like a small comet, then rolling into a stop at the Neuroi infantry bot's foot, it was fifth raven's severed, still disintegrating head.

The decanus looked up, already sucking power from its right forearm to the left. The crystals in its vambrace awoke, aligned, and alighted, at first emitting a nimbus of malevolent crimson energy around its wrist, then forcing that field into a solid, tapering mass in a blade of pure plasma that hovered over its hand. A scarlet lightning storm danced across the entire left side of the decanus as it clenched its only fist in preparation and taunt: an intimidating gesture for all humans as it had come to know first-hand, but this green animal did not appear to share their easy cowardice.

Instead, it chuckled. "You wantz ta play, den? Good!" It brandished its axe, hunching slightly into a fighting stance. "Yer udder boyz weren't much of a foight. I'z hopin' you's better!"

The decanus snarled an invective in response. Audibly this time. It couldn't understand what the creature was saying and vice-versa, but warriors always traded insults before a fight, didn't they?

"Get ready, grimmly. I'z comin'!"

With that short preamble, the creature began to charge. Fast. Now it knew why the younger ones fell - this was not something the lesser members of its contubernium could challenge while dispersed. Again, another tactical mistake. They should have sticked together and brought it down with massed laser fire. Instead, the decanus was alone, ambushed by its quarry from a ruined basement entrance not fifteen meters away.

Every footfall of the creature heralded a thump rivaling the distant thunder of lightning strikes. The continuing rain hissed against the superheated surface of the decanus' plasma blade. Clawed feet began to move in mirror to the other pair. The Neuroi began to charge in kind.

The alien in midnight clad was but a mere decanus. A footsoldier. It did not soar on invisible wings like a guardian, nor was it a herald of doom on the ground war as a striding praetorian. But it had been offended for more than enough times this solar day, and it would wipe away the noisome dishonor of losing a flock of seven ravens by killing the brute before it.

The green maw opened at that point, mid-charge, axe held high.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH"

It was not a flying guardian, but it could emulate their terrible, magnificent roars that inspired dread within even the most courageous of human witches. Its own was a cybernetic, throaty roar, tinny like a hammer upon an anvil as it poised its blade to strike.

"RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGH"

The brute had come in a laughably predictable overhead swing, jumping at the end of its charge to add some weight to it. The fact that it was predictable was a laughing matter indeed, but not the alactrity of of the attack nor the impressive weight the blow carried. The axe-head smashed against the cobble, breaking and otherwise cracking the stones where the decanus used to be. The Neuroi had slipped towards the side, and was already plunging its blade towards the creature's gut - which, too, gave way to thin air.

So the ape could dodge. The decanus was not expecting that. In fact, it wasn't expecting much of what had happened in the past hour, when it should have. Had fighting humans all this time turned it lax with overconfidence? It had only ever seen the storied witches from afar, much less fought them, and every close encounter with the disgustingly biological enemy ended in a satisfying, internecine victory, for so weak were they. But here was an enemy that could match it, and though it did not feel fear, its cautious conscience did not exactly thrum with the joy of an actual challenge for once.

"You'z got a fancy choppa," the animal bellowed, as it threw its arm back, "I'z lootin' it from ya afta yer dead!" Then it swung again, in an ungraceful backhand. The axe-head cleaved through the air diagonally with brutal swiftness, and met the decanus' plasma blade in a light show of flashes and sparks.

The steel came at a bad angle, and merely glanced against the shimmering energy field even as it began to melt from the extreme heat. The decanus allowed the axe to abrade past its vambrace, opting for a quick and clean kill: crouching slightly, its head below the creature's shoulder level, it shifted easily from parry to attack, and thrust the plasma blade forward. However, its foe was fast, and it cut through its rancid armpit instead of its ribs. The energy weapon devoured through flesh easily, and cauterized the wound so it didn't bleed. Acting quickly, the decanus dashed forwards, bashing the creature with its other shoulder, and when it turned, it parried another blow with the faceted barrel of its laser rifle.

Remarkable. Even when its axe-arm was dangling almost uselessly with severed muscle and chipped bone, the creature had switched grips with stunning alacrity and was holding its weapon in its other fist. The angle was better this time - worse for the decanus - and cut through its ablative flesh, breaking the focusing crystals in its laser rifle. Now it lacked ranged armament till it dealt with this brute and returned to the hive for rejuvenation.

"Damn grimmly!" the creature cursed, spitting viscous salivation to evaporate on the decanus' blade as it wrenched its axe away. "I'll kill you fer dat!"

But it threw its striking arm way too far back and rendered its twisting torso vulnerable. The decanus pulsed a mocking acknowledgement to a murderous vow it didn't understand, and rushed in again, kicking the wet stone to slide fluidly past the green ape. By the time it had finished its too-wide swing, the decanus was already behind it. Sure of a final blow, it thrust forward with resolve, in an attempt to sever the creature's spine.

Another glancing blow. It tore through leather and skin, but not muscle. The decanus was surprised by how thick the animal's natural hide was, and was surprised even more by the sight of the axe-head rushing towards its cyclopean, insectoid face.

The decanus was expecting the thing to wince in pain. It didn't. Instead, it turned, and its left arm shadowed the energy sword with another inelegant swipe as it passed over it. The angle, again, was bad. But even though it was merely the flat of the axe-head, it was still a blow that juddered the entirety of the decanus' body and turned the world upside-down.

It did not feel pain, but it did know irritation. The decanus felt a bruise on the crystal that served as both its eye and its heart, and wrenched its swimming, stunned consciousness above the metaphorical waters just in time to kick the leaping ape in the gut, forcing the air out of whatever passed for its lungs and cutting its feral roar in an ignoble gasp. The creature fell arse-first on a puddle of rainwater, landing with such force that it splashed most of its contents away. What was left of the already murky pool was further discolored by the red of oozing blood.

The decanus stood as its opponent did, and both killers regarded each other silently in the suddenly strengthening rain, the shadow of overcast clouds, and the at edges of distant peals of thunder.

The alien in black hissed loudly as it recollected its hatred and purpose, clenching its clawed, three-fingered hand and somehow intensifying the brilliance of its plasma sword. The alien in green meanwhile, grinned a toothy one.

"You foights good, grimmly. But you dies now! WAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

The ape charged anew, with only one functioning arm this time. Enraged, it bounded for the similarly crippled decanus with the same gusto as its previous rush. Spinning its clawed feet into a run, the Neuroi uttered a screaming, libratory invective that vibrated the air as its foe's roar rumbled through it. Axe met sword yet again in a light show of red and orange, illuminating the cobble around them just as surely as the lightning. The duel continued, inelegant as it was, with a flurry of punches, bashes and kicks to punctuate the swipes, guards and dodges.

It was a fair fight, but the decanus would win. It was _sure_ it would win.

* * *

Worg Blacktoof was, by no means, a sophisticated creature.

And he was fine with that, even if he did rank low in the brutal ork hierarchy. Unlike those awful Bad Moons, he was low-maintenance, needing only three things: food, drink and sport. The dismembered grimmly that lay at his ironclad boots had provided much of the third need, but at the urging of his grumbling stomach, he decided he would look for the other two after this business was done.

The lightning forked from the sky once again, and the drizzle had become a downpour. Rivulets of rainwater diluted the blood that oozed from his many wounds as they traveled down the ork's simian figure, describing his contours in a mystical glimmer as the clouds flashed to cast pure white across the landscape.

Worg's gaze was downcast, regarding the strange and angled features of his foe's unblinking visage. He grinned again, as he was fond of doing so.

"You foughts well. Now I takes yer head."

The grimmly, broken and prone, with the stumps that remained of its scattered limbs twitching, snarled harshly in response. Part of the ork pitied the poor creature, for it could not speak intelligibly. Then again, not every race in this wide and wonderful universe could be as smart as an ork. Worg had lamented at first that his new and strange opponents could not match him in a choppa fight, but this one was different. From its slightly larger size and its fancy power weapon, Worg conjectured that it must have been a mini-boss, like a… what did his boss call it? Ah, a sarjent! A sarjent, leading a small mob of eight. That's larger than nine, innit?

Worg raised his axe. He was testing himself. Wounded as he was, he was wondering whether his veins still possessed enough brutal cunning and cunning brutality to take the alien's head off with one strike. Mork knew he'd bled out a lot since the fight started. The slugga boy, who had lost his slugga, held his half-melted choppa proudly in the air, his beady little eyes squinting in concentration. Then, his hand fell.

The thump was loud and shook its way into the bodies of both warriors. Worg had missed by inches, bisecting a stone instead of the grimmly's neck. Again, the grimmly snarled something he couldn't quite understand, but he was sure it was mockery.

He gave the thing a kick, earning another pulsing insult. "Shut yer yap. Dat was jus' a test chop."

"Dis one," he said, as he raised his now blunt weapon again, "is da _real_ chop!"

The grimmly snarled as Worg did. The blow had cut into the alien's black neck, but only quarterly. Damnation. It would take several strikes to decapitate the grimmly, not just one. It was the hurt, Worg reasoned, why this was the case - and definitely not his lack of orkiness! And the fact that his choppa had been rendered nearly useless by the grimmly's fancy one. It was a fine choppa too, worth two teef - one of which he'd acquired by punching the merchant in the face. Now its head, once noble and sharp, was a near-useless mass of slag at the end of a stick. The choppa had become some sort of bludgeon, and that would be fine if the latter was as versatile as the former.

But it wasn't. For example, Worg couldn't pick his teef with a club; a club does not have thin, sharp lengths with which to do just that.

Bah. He would find a gretchin later to grind it back to razor-sharpness. Failing that, he'd just have to buy or steal a new one. Although, he was rather sad about ruining the grimmly's power blade. That could have been a prize beyond value. Or maybe it would have disintegrated along with its owner?

So he wasn't quite chopping the grimmly's neck so much as pulverizing it with smash after powerful smash. Accompanying every single blow was an angry pulsation from his prone and broken foe and a cloud of sparkling pseudo-snow.

He would also have to find a dok to suture up his wounds, and get to a mek shop to buy another slugga. Never a shoota, because such double-handed armaments would deprive him of the ability to wield a melee weapon. Within Worg was the spirit of an ork who loved to get stuck in, feeling the deep cut of every one of his attacks and the blood of the enemy splattering against his skin. He would never understand flash gitz and shoota boys. What fun was there in killing from afar?

There were certainly lots of things to do after this. Worg holstered his choppa by a special strap stitched on at his belt specifically for that purpose, and put one sure foot on the chest of the still squirming, still growling grimmly. Its neck now was as thin as a stick, hollowed out into fine powder that evaporated easily in the rain. He gripped its head, rubbing his thumbs against the large jewel on its face, and, after one hefty pull, wrenched it free from the rest of its body.

His foe's cranium in his burly grip, Worg stared at his mutilated foe's impassive eye.

And it snarled.

"HAHAHAHA," Worg laughed, incredibly amused. It was a rumble, a high series of percussions like the tirade of a gunning combustion engine. "You'z a tuff one. Gots no head but still 'live. You ain't 'ard like I'z used to, but you's 'ard in 'nudder way."

The grimmly snarled again.

"I think I loikes ya. I'll keep ya as a trophy, I fink. Dat's an honour, dat is!"

A rusty roar was the response. Worg laughed again.

The ork reached for one of the larger pockets that hung from his belt. Out came the spool of an iron chain that terminated in a mean-looking hook. Steadying what was left of the conscious grimly on its slowly disintegrating torso, Worg speared the hook into the crest that tapered off as it traveled from the forehead rearwards. Running the chain through the hole, he looped it around himself and secured it to his girdle. He rose, and now at his thigh hung an undeniable record of his deeds, as well as a fine pet more prestigious than any squiggly beast.

It snarled again, as it bounced against his metal codpiece.

"Good idea," Worg intoned in wiseness and understanding. "Let's get outta dis here settlement. You hungry? I'm hungry."

Worg didn't bother to loot the body, because there was nothing to loot. He found that out when he killed his second grimmly today. Grimmlies were just like the chittering, clattering gribblies: their weapons were built into their systems, and while they offered sport, they had little in the way of useful things like ammunition and such. At the very least, you could take their heads and use them to adorn one's armor, but unlike gribblies, grimmlies didn't need much to live. Worg realized quickly that their large, cyclopean eyes were actually all of their organs clumped up together into some sort of crystalline mass. That was the reason why it was so deeply red, for red is obviously the color of viscera. Although, he did wonder how it was possible to breathe with such shrunken lungs.

"You needs yer eye to live, dontcha?"

" _SHHTHHRHRHRRHRRR"_

"I knews it! Dere's gonna be lots a scraps ahead uv us, but don't you's worry. Oi'll get some iron platin' and nail it over yer eye. Dat way, you'll be protected."

" _SHTAAARGHRAATAAARGGH"_

"Don't needs ta thank me. I takes good care of me pets. But you needs a name," Worg suddenly realized, and tapped his massive chin with his only serviceable hand, looking skywards in thought. "I fink I'll calls you… Dikk."

" _SSHHRrrRRrRRRrRRRrrRAAH"_

"I'm glad ya likes it. Now den," he turned to the nearest road that lead out of there. "Let's get outta here."

As the newly christened Dikk snarled another misunderstood screed of hatred, the downpour trickled into a drizzle, and then that drizzle tapered off into nothingness. The clouds that hung heavily and hid the skies parted only just a bit, but the space was enough for rays of sunlight to pierce through. These radiant columns brought light to the dark, and lit up the ork's bestial face as he walked along the cobblestone carriageways and chatted idly with his newfound companion.

The most awful thing in a horrible situation is the possibility that something terribly funny might happen. A strong wind buffeted the rolling green hills and the nearby forests of old, venerable wood as Worg stepped clear of the abandoned village's low-walled boundaries. It was as if Mother Nature herself realized that she had become the butt of Destiny's jokes, and was woefully unprepared for its long-armed, short-legged, green-skinned agent that had just caught the whiff of a fresh rabbit in the tall grass.

In the naive hopefulness of the recent past, something very, very hilarious was about to happen.


End file.
